


whatever a sun will always sing

by RoamingSignals



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fate & Destiny, Fictional Religion & Theology, Kings & Queens, Knight!Mark, M/M, Prophecy, prophet!donghyuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 21:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20785457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoamingSignals/pseuds/RoamingSignals
Summary: There is an inherent power that comes from being blessed by the gods — it is not quite that same power that lies in Mark's armor or the blade at his hip, but it is similar. Smoother and more subtle but grander in weight.Donghyuck speaks for higher powers against his will, and Mark has a future in his shaking hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yo it's Rome and she's back with this thing.  
Be nice to this thing I don't usually use a lot of prose so I'm Insecure thank you I love you
> 
> Title from ee cummings, [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]  
Thank you to Ellie for reading this over and also putting up with me, somehow.

Mark has always wanted to be a knight.

His mother used to tell him stories of old heroes, passed down by mouths and warped into something larger than life. He would badger the old men and women in the market for stories, badger the travelers, badger whoever would listen. Picked up half-rotten sticks and imagined himself a warrior until the stick snapped and he had to return home, lest night fall and trap him in the woods.

Now, he hasn't seen his mother in years. The castle is his home since the age of seven. The stories of old heroes have lasted longer than some memories of her. In some ways, it's worth it. In others, it's cruel.

Mark Lee is knighted at fifteen, not because he's completed his apprenticeship, but because he has saved the prince's life. Not yet a squire, Mark kills a man and vomits afterwards. It feels like a small gesture — men risk their lives on the battlefield for their knighthood, not in a gilded room with hands against knives — but it's big enough to shake Mark to the core, so he supposes it's enough of a sacrifice to warrant it.

He hangs in the negative space between man and boy, but he's gotten what he's always wanted, and now the gates are open. He can walk through them at will. It's a privilege he's earned.

But he really hates the processions. Gods, does he hate them.

Going into town can be nice. Mark can't cook at all, relies on the kitchens to feed him, but he enjoys wandering through the markets. He's not notorious the way the royal family is, but they know him here. They recognize his face as Mark, the boy who trips over his tongue, before they recognize him as Sir Lee, but sometimes that's nice. Sometimes that's what Mark needs to keep his feet on the ground.

The processional is a fanfare. Mark is one of several knights guarding the royal family, waltzing through the main street as civilians line the sides. They're required to show respect for the monarchy, expected to stand there and look at the splendor with awe in their eyes. Mark finds they respect him more in his linens than in his armor, but he's not the king. The king demands more fear than respect; it's the same in the long run, and more gripping.

Yukhei is with the king and queen today. Mark is thankful he's back with the prince.

"It's a lovely day," Johnny says from the carriage, leaning out the window to smirk at Mark on his steed. It's too hot, and the twist of Johnny's mouth says he knows as much. Still, they're in public and Mark can't snip back. He can't even wipe the sweat from off his neck. He's melting like ice in the summer.

"Lovely," Mark says, unimpressed.

He isn't wearing full ceremonial garb — it's a small mercy, considering the heat — but his doublet sticks to the back of his neck and sweat feels like it pools in the bottom of his boots. Johnny isn't unscathed, but the added luxury of shade is enough to leave him feeling superior, if the entourage weren't enough.

The prince had been the one to suggest an outing, and Mark's a fool to have agreed. Still, the prince traveling to town is one thing. It's another story when the queen decided she'd like to come along, the king by her side. Their jaunt was elevated to a full-blown affair. Mark is lucky he managed to stay at Johnny's side. Ahead of them, he sees Yukhei sitting stiffly on his mount, likely under the critical eyes of royalty.

The king and queen frighten Mark. Johnny feels more like a friend, or he would, if either of them allowed it to be so.

There are many things that frighten Mark. In that way, he's a horrible knight. He fears crowds, for example, even up high on his steed. He fears the temples. He fears large birds.

He fears fate.

She's always held something in store for him.

The civilians layer thick around the market. The road is clogged with people, some wanting a glimpse of the grandeur, others wanting to sneer at the shadows. Mark doesn't blame them. The people here are thirsty for spectacles. In some ways, that's the most the royal family has given them.

There's the normal amount of pushing and shoving, the natural movement of a crowd of people. It's Mark's job to assess the area, keeping his eyes open for anything untoward, anything out of the ordinary. The prince is well loved by his people, but there are enemies that come inherently with power, despite any other charms.

When Mark sees the crowd parting, his nerves fire.

It's a boy, young and small but fierce, eyes wild, and he seems wholly unfocused on the procession. That's good news for Mark, because he would not like to have to harm someone who reminds him of himself, but it's odd.

He races on foot with determination and great focus, eyes pinning on something ahead of him, closer, closer. Mark's grip on the sword at his waist, until he's close enough that Mark can hear his voice over the bustle of the townsfolk.

"Grab him!" the young man shouts, high and sharp. He turns, and Mark gets a frontal view of his face — there's fear there, beyond what Mark expected. "By gods, someone stop him!"

There's a hand on Mark's wrist.

Mark is a good knight, despite what he might feel at his lowest, but it's clear that his distraction has cost him dearly. So focused was he on this strange boy that he didn't notice the one slinking into his space.

Many things happen at once. Neo, Mark's mount, rears, and the hand on his sword slips to the reins. There are too many people too close for a spooked horse, and it's Mark's split-attention that also the hand on his wrist to tug him off balance.

Mark looks at his assailant and finds something beautiful and terrifying; a boy, with stars in his eyes.

Actual stars — the pupil is glazed golden, directed on Mark's face and through him. There's something ageless on an otherwise young face that tells a story Mark isn't sure he needs to hear.

There are many things that frighten Mark.

Fate frightens him the most.

"_Make your decision, Minhyung,_" the boy says with a voice not his own. It's too heavy, rings too much, demands attention not required by simple man. "_Who are you loyal to? This land rises or falls by your choice._"

The first person to move isn't the boy, or Mark, or the stranger in the crowd. In a sea of people still as statues, the first person to move is Johnny. The prince throws open the door of his carriage, stands tall on the step. "Release him," he demands, gods speaking be damned.

It shatters the moment. Mark is locked by some power he cannot name, but the men and women around him are not under such restraints. There's a sword at the boy's neck in an instant, Kim Yerim's eyes alight with fire. Others dismount, surround, overwhelm.

The boy does not flinch. His grip does not loosen.

He looks at Johnny with those warm, distant, terrifying eyes. "_Son of Seo_," he says, and the wind is ripped from Mark's lungs at the audacity of this creature, this god using a boy's mouth. "_Your choices are already set._" Eyes flash white hot. "_Accept what you've been given. Sit on your throne and wait._"

Yerim growls. There's blood on the boy's neck, fragile skin broken by steel, and this god still does not release him.

"Keep speaking and you'll kill the one you've gifted," Mark says, voice steady. More steady than his heart. "Release me."

The white-knuckle grip loosens like a doll with cut strings, and they're both released — the boy crumples to his knees, trousers tearing on cobblestones.

He blinks, eyes clearing, skin blanching, and stares into the sun.

The boy looks at the people around him, takes in the weapons, the warhorse, the prince, and touches the cut on his neck with shaking fingers. He doesn't look at the blood. He breathes once, twice, and then he laughs — heart-broken.

Mark looks back at the crowd and sees the first boy, the one who was afraid, and he isn't afraid anymore. He stares at Mark defiantly, but he's too upset for the challenge. There's devastation in the stubborn lines of his face.

He turns back to the crowd and parts the seas once more.

Mark very pointedly does not follow where he goes.

* * *

Prophets are not unheard of. The Moon blesses children as she wanes, and although they're not common, they're known. In Mark's hometown, on the edges of the country, he had known a young girl with silver hair who spoke in tongues. He can't remember her name — she had been taken to temples not long after the discovery.

There's a temple by the castle, in fact, filled with men and women and others who have been blessed. It's said to be for their safety — there's an inherent power there that can be consuming — and their comfort, to surround them with others like them, and maybe that's true. On his journeys, Mark has visited some temples that feel almost homey, like a community rather than a sect.

He isn't sure the royal family cultivates their temple for this reason, but he's not important enough to have an opinion.

The boy clearly has one, anyway. It's a big opinion, loud, and Mark doesn't feel like there's enough room between them for Mark's thoughts to matter.

The processional had been cut short, unsurprisingly. Once the royal family is not the major spectacle of the day, everything else seems silly in comparison. Once the seal breaks, the knights have their work cut out for them keeping the crowds at bay. Everyone surges forward to see the debris, even as Yerim bodily lifts the boy off the ground and binds his hands.

Restraining him seems redundant to Mark. He hadn't threatened anyone, only spoke with another voice, but there's fire in his eyes even once the other spirit has left him. There's fight left there, after everything. Mark isn't sure whether that means he's dangerous or not.

"Take him," Yerim tells Mark, and the boy's eyes cut, cruel. His wrists are tied in front of him, but he challenges everyone around him like he's dangerous.

Mark kindly doesn't mention the way his bottom lip quivers. There's no need to add insult to injury. "Of course."

It's hot and sticky, but they situate the boy on Mark's horse, and with a small nod from the prince, they leave together for the castle.

"This is the end, I suppose," the boy says. His own voice is much lighter that Mark had expected, even with the added weight of turmoil.

"They're not going to harm you in any way," Mark says evenly. "You have been blessed. Some would like very much to be in your place."

The boy laughs. Bitter.

Bitter and heart-broken, that's all. No joy.

"The temples are beautiful," Mark says, further out of town, when the spires of the castle begin to loom overhead. "Not many are able to see them in this lifetime."

The tilt of the boy's head makes it clear he has thoughts on this manner, and Mark is unsure whether he'd like to hear them or not. "And those that do see them every day for the rest of their lives."

Mark isn't certain this is the best thread of conversation, but the boy's voice is soft and high and washes over the memories of his empty eyes. "An honor."

The boy looks up at the castle, jaw set, with an ugly twist to his mouth. There's humor there, deep enough to belie vulnerability. "A gold-gilded cage."

Ah. "Silver-gilded, probably," Mark replies. "Golden cages are reserved for royalty."

There's a laugh, however derisive, and it's worth the quip.

The guards at the gates look at them with great confusion, but Mark supposes that's to be expected when a knight sworn to protect the royal family returns without the royal family, a strange boy on his horse. "Please inform Master Moon I've brought him an inductee."

A moment of confusion before the gates are lifted and Mark urges his horse inside.

"I'll fight him," the boy says, mulish.

Mark takes the longer route towards the temples, partially to give them more time to prepare for visitors and partially to give the sullen boy a view of the gardens. His efforts go unrewarded as the boy stares steadfast forward, but Mark enjoys the view on his own. "No one has the heart to fight Taeil."

Except perhaps Doyoung, but even then it's with a soft hand.

The temples truly are beautiful, a feat of architecture. Mark always thought that lavishness for the sake of lavishness was a waste, but it's long done and now all that's left is to appreciate the mastery. The temples are splayed out, multiple small buildings nestled amongst a carefully cultivated garden. There's a pond in the center, it's surface unbroken, and men and women sit on their knees by the water, meditating. Their robes are made of blue silk, silvery even in the daylight. There is less connection to their god in the daytime — the moon is sleeping, but she sees all, regardless of whether it's under her domain or not.

The Blessed pray to her and wait for her to answer.

Still on Mark's horse, the boy stares at the devout with a cruel twist to his mouth.

"Their god won't answer," he says after a moment. "They only answer when it benefits them."

Mark hums. "I suppose that means they must always be listening."

The Master of the temple is waiting for them in front of the stone pillars. It's clear he did not make an effort to present himself well in front of their company, but the look in his eyes is less than frazzled. His linen shirt and trousers is in stark contrast with the grandeur of the buildings or even the robes of those milling about, but he seems more friendly for it. His hair is slicked back from a bath, and his smile is bright.

Mark knows Taeil to be a kind man, but the boy in front of him stares warily, despite Taeil's obvious efforts.

"A room has already been prepared," Taeil says by way of greeting. He smiles at the boy. "Welcome, child."

The boy makes no move to greet in return. His hands clutch the saddle like a lifeline, still tied. He shakes against Mark's chest. "I don't want to be here."

Nearby, a woman sucks in a gasp. It's a grave disrespect. Dishonor on their god, the temple, and their Master, but Taeil seems unsurprised.

"I know, my boy." Taeil is not a comforter, it's not one of his gifts. Still, he extends his hands. "I will help you."

It has become obvious he does not know how to ride, as he was stiff their entire journey here. Mark had dismissed it as discomfort, but the boy did not give into the rhythm Neo set, and perhaps that's more due to inexperience. He is a civilian, and has likely never had cause to learn to ride.

His hands being bound don’t help him on the dismount. Taeil's gentle hand grips his arm, and Mark's own hands steady the boy's waist as he struggles to get his leg over the saddle. It's a choppy affair, and Mark holds him tighter lest he meets the ground before he's ready.

Taeil eases the boy down, and once his feet are firmly on the ground the boy pulls up to his full height. It's meager, and Mark says that knowing their heights are likely similar, but Taeil is small, and the boy looms.

"Are you in charge?"

"I'm an authority here," Taeil says mildly. "One of many."

It's an understatement — the King and Queen have their hand in the running of the temples, despite what they might say, but they don't travel through the gardens often. There are other Masters, prophets of great ability such as Kun, who bear some of the weight, but Taeil is the strongest hand.

Mark has never seen the King or Queen combat Taeil's authority here — but he is certain it happens, however rarely, and he has also never seen Taeil's will be denied. He has the unspeakable power of someone who knows best.

"Do I speak to you about my dismissal?" the boy questions.

"You've been blessed for a reason," Taeil answers. "Perhaps you should take that up with your god."

Mark senses his own dismissal. Surely, the two have things to discuss. He dismounts much more easily, pulling out his knife. "Come."

The boy looks at the knife blankly. Perhaps there would be trepidation there if the boy were not terrified out of his mind for other reasons. Mark can recognize someone coming to terms with their entire life changing.

He is gentle when he cuts the bindings on the boy's hands.

"You couldn't have done that sooner?" is the miffed response. The boy rubs his wrists, rubbed red.

"What is your name?" Mark replies instead of answering.

There's a beat of silence and then a decision.

"Donghyuck."

It suits him. "Welcome home, Donghyuck." Mark isn't certain why he says it — it makes both of them sad. He looks at Taeil and bows his head. "I will inform Doyoung of your new resident."

"You should return soon," Taeil offers. "Whenever you decide it's time."

Mark leads Neo towards the stables, reins in hand, and does his best to not look over his shoulder. Donghyuck's expression is too forlorn, and Mark has never been good at convincing himself he's doing the right thing.

* * *

"Our new resident is testing my patience."

Mark grins at Doyoung as he sharpens his sword. "I'm sure that's his only goal."

"Testing my patience?" the advisor huffs, quill scribbling over documents. "Don't flatter me. He's interested in annoying the entire court, I'm merely the easiest target."

Despite Taeil's words, Mark has not seen Donghyuck in four days, since he left the boy at the temple. There is never time, between training and hunting and guarding the prince and avoiding the temples completely.

His heart is unsettled. He would like to be steady on his feet before plunging into the unknown.

Mark did visit the tailor, the only time he's gone out of his way to act on the shaking of his heart. Sicheng has much on his plate, but he was more than willing to provide new robes for the temple's newest inductee. Not having his measurements was perhaps a setback, but Mark knows enough to see they're similar sizes, and so Sicheng drapes the knight in blue silk and sticks pins in him and calls it a job well-done.

Sicheng does not bat an eyelash when Mark asks for civilian's clothes as well. It is not the castle's duty to dress the Blessed outside of their daily robes or their ceremonial garb, but it does not make a dent in their coffers to shill out an extra set of breeches. He is not certain where or when Donghyuck will need them.

He slips the clothing between the robes and hands the carefully wrapped package to Qian Kun, who takes it knowingly. "No note?"

"Why would I need to leave a note?" Mark questions. "I'm simply a delivery boy."

Kun rolls his eyes — it's very unbefitting of a man of faith to tease so much. "He would like to see you, if he would admit it to himself."

"He would not like to see me," Mark says. "I'm the one that brought him here."

The longer Mark has stewed on these events, the more he's certain this is the worst case scenario for Donghyuck. He thinks of the fear on that boy's face, the one in the crowd, calling for Donghyuck to stop, please, someone stop him, and Mark wonders for minute upon horrifying minute how much Donghyuck lost that day.

His freedom, surely.

"He can protest as much as he wants," Kun says evenly. "The god decided to use him in that moment; it's not your fault, nor is it your lot to take the blame."

The moment Donghyuck opened his mouth, his fate was set in stone. There was no other option. Mark knows that and he still curses himself.

There are those who love the temples, thrive in this circumstance. He is not certain why Donghyuck detests even the thought of it so fervently, not when he's surrounded by people who are like him, who understand him.

But Mark has also barely spoken with Donghyuck. He has the awful feeling that doing so will cement the feeling in his stomach rather than abate it, and so he continues to not speak to Donghyuck.

Doyoung is a welcome escape from Mark's own thoughts, because Doyoung has enough thoughts for four people at any given time, but Mark can't say he's surprised this topic of conversation has been brought up.

"Trying to organize an induction ceremony during this time of year." Doyoung clicks his tongue. "He's too old, so the robes have to be specialty made, and the King and Queen are not being straight-forward about whether they'll be attending or not." He frowns. "His Highness will probably attend in their stead."

The prince looks up from his spot in Doyoung's office. He's reading something, a novel by the colorful bindings. "I will attend."

"Then I won't bother trying to hound them." Doyoung sighs. "I'm not even the one who's meant to be organizing this. I'm your advisor, not an event planner."

"You say that like you didn't offer," Johnny points out, eyebrow raised. "They didn't even ask you to organize, you just rolled up your sleeves and began."

"Well." Doyoung sniffs. "We all have flaws."

The prince purses his lips, thumb trailing over the edge of his page, eyes distant. "I'm not certain how I feel about him residing here."

"Donghyuck?" Mark inquires. "Why is that?"

"I know it isn't his fault," Johnny says after a long moment of thought, "but his words don't settle well with me."

"He was warning of turmoil," Doyoung points out, disinterested, perusing through his paperwork. Some of it is probably the prince's, but Doyoung hates it when Johnny does the work wrong. "I doubt the gods meant for it to be comforting."

Mark chews on the inside of his mouth. "It might have been a ruse," he offers.

"The look of him afterwards..." Johnny shakes his head, and his expression is painted blue around the edges. "He would never have made that choice."

"I wonder why he hates the idea of this place so much."

"Some love the security of the temples," Doyoung says. "But some just aren't meant to be caged."

"But he's blessed." Mark runs the pad of his finger up the flat of his blade idly. "This is the best place for him, surely."

The prince and his advisor look at Mark and smile.

It's naïve of him, perhaps, to think that way.

Conversation continues to roll, and Mark rolls along, head on his shoulders and mind far behind.

* * *

Mark attends the induction ceremony.

He is one of many, and does not consider himself a special case. In fact, had he not attended he would be in the minority of the court. There is an inherent power that comes from being blessed — it is not quite that same power that lies in Mark's armor or the blade at his hip, but it is similar. Smoother and more subtle but grander in weight.

The attendees are all dressed in white, as is fitting, but the temple priests wear dark blue and shuffle through the grounds barefoot. Taeil himself is draped in his robes, embroidered with silver, and his cowl hides his face. It's dark, moon overhead so that she might oversee her chosen people, but the lanterns are lit. The shadows they cast are almost murky, but the low visibility only highlights those that can clearly See.

When Donghyuck emerges from the main temple, it is the first time Mark has laid eyes on him since that day.

He is beautiful.

He is miserable.

His robes are silver, stark against the midnight blue of his fellows, and his bearing rings with pride. The woman on his right hand lowers his hood for him, and he shines in the moonlight. The pallor of the stone, of the lantern light, of the moon, it all strikes Mark as clearly at odds with this beautiful, miserable boy.

Like before, Mark pretends he does not see Donghyuck's lip quiver. He is proud of the power in Donghyuck's step. Nothing else is worth mentioning.

It's Kun that is waiting for him at the pond. His robes flutter out in the water, dark and endless, but his smile is calming as he reaches out for Donghyuck's hand.

Mark has been surrounded by royalty from a young age, but he has never seen anything as regal as Donghyuck when he steps into the water and, without taking Kun's hand, lowers himself beneath the surface.

It is not how the ceremony is supposed to go, but the quirk of Kun's mouth is resigned, and a reflection of the humor on Johnny's face. Donghyuck emerges from the water, taking a huge gasp of air, and when his eyes open they are that alarming gold.

Kun's smile shifts into something knowing. "Welcome, Lee Donghyuck."

It is done.

* * *

The rumors begin not long after the ceremony, and if anything solidifies that Donghyuck is not taking to the castle, it's the whispers in the halls.

Mark has better things to do than listen to gossip, but he won't pretend that he isn't interested, and so he says nothing when it trails through the barracks. It is odd, that the news travels so far. The temples are truly their own universe, separate from the castle, with different dramas, but Donghyuck seems to be creating ripples merely by existing.

"They say that he's lost himself in the water," he hears the maids say as he passes. "That he was wrongfully inducted and the god took too much of him."

"I heard he is a false prophet."

"I do believe he's a child, first and foremost," Taeil says, almost airy, as he passes by in the libraries. Mark sinks in on himself and is grateful that someone speaks. He hides behind his texts and promises to close his own ears.

Taeil is right. Taeil is always right.

But Donghyuck is more than a child.

"How did he remain hidden for so long?" one of Mark's men is twittering during drills, shortly after the induction ceremony. "He's so headstrong."

The declaration of baptizing himself in the lake had shaken the elders in the court to the core, but it's dramatic enough that it's trickled down even here, with the laymen. The oldest inductee they've seen was a mere eleven years old. Donghyuck's age is a mystery — or maybe it isn't, and Mark simply hasn't asked — but he's old enough that it's worth noting. The Blessed are lead by their god, and she moves them as she sees fit, and she has patterns. But Mark is nothing, not in the grand scheme of things, and who is he to question her?

Children do not have the wherewithal to challenge ceremony the way Donghyuck has.

"He doesn't pray with the others," a girl whispers. Doyeon, if Mark is remembering correctly, tall and powerful. "I see them meditating at night, and he is never there. He's like a ghost."

"Does he even belong here?" the first boy asks. "They say he Spoke, but he's clearly not like the others. If I were his god, I would strike him where he stands."

"I do hope you're talking about drills," someone else says, so loud and firm that Mark startles. It's Yerim, hand on the sword at her hip, eyebrows raised. "I swear you were told to be training, not blathering like old men."

The cluster of students dissipates, bringing themselves back in line and returning to their work with renewed vigor.

Yerim looks at Mark where he hides. "You could have stopped them yourself," she reminds him. Rightfully so, as he was the one in charge of running drills today.

The sun is hot overhead, and sweat drips down Mark's neck and onto the cotton of his tunic. He stands steady, because it's the only way he knows, but he does hate that this has shaken him. "I know." He isn't sure why he held his tongue — why he's consistently held his tongue.

"Is it because of the boy from the processional?" she asks after a moment. Her eyes are sharp as she watches the trainees. Yerim has always prided herself on discipline and hard work, and she does everything in her power to appear this way. It's something Mark values about her, but he values her friendship more, and more still her ability to turn it off when she needs to. "I hear them gossip." There's a curl to her mouth. "I can't say I'm fond of him."

Truthfully, Yerim has barely spoken with him. If the rumors are to be believed, Donghyuck has hidden himself away and Mark is the only one in the castle to have had multiple conversations with him. Considering that Mark barely understands him, it's not a huge leap that no one else does, either.

It's a heartbreaking thought.

"But he isn't a false prophet," Yerim continues. "I've seen false prophecies, and they don't ring the same. They don't burn that way." She swallows, stoic. "His power is true, whatever they say."

"Yes." Mark is at a loss.

"I am curious as to how he's stayed away from the temples for so long." The question that burns. "They are right, he is headstrong. I wouldn't be surprised if he's been denying his calling."

"Either the god is imperfect and made a mistake, or he has been where he needed to be," Mark says, after a long moment, because his tells him that is what he believes. "She has higher plans."

Yerim smiles, and she looks so young. "She does."

Mark purposefully does not think of his role in them.

* * *

Time passes, and there are more important things to worry about than ghosts and callings. Winter is drawing near, and Mark spends much of his time working to secure the harvest. It's a job that Johnny has asked of him, and it needs to be done.

"My father is busy with other affairs," Johnny tells Mark when they meet over breakfast. Doyoung is also there, scribbling in his book. Mark can tell that he is worrying over something by the way his hair stands and how Johnny's body gravitates towards him, seeking to comfort. It's Johnny's greatest gift, that he seeks to soothe. "But it's work, and it needs to be finished."

"He's a knight, John," Doyoung says absently, still scribbling. "Doesn't he have better things to follow than your whims?"

Johnny purses his mouth, and Mark looks between them both, uncertain. "It surely isn't a whim."

Doyoung hums, passive in tone, aggressive in demeanor.

"I'll go, Your Highness." Mark bows, low at the waist. "It will be done."

He closes the door firmly behind him, and leaves tumultuous thoughts behind.

Johnny's whims are a gift, and Mark is happy to oblige, as he is able to push prophecies out of his mind in the face of physical labor.

He returns to the castles late at night, him and a handful of others, and leaves early in the morning. Mark is happy to work himself to exhaustion in these times of peace, if it means the weight is lifted off of weaker shoulders.

Still, the exhaustion settles, and his feet drag, and his happiness is dulled by the need to sleep and the inability to pause.

"Why are you running yourself into the ground?" Yukhei asks him, wiping sweat off his brow. The civilian women nearby watch them all eagerly, but Yukhei gets most of their attention, as much as he is oblivious to it. Mark makes eye contact with the growing crowd and they scatter.

"I'm not certain," Mark answers, but it's a lie. The truth is that he feels like there's nowhere else to go.

He stays later, works harder, because he can, and some nights he returns alone, without his friends and comrades, and lets Neo guide him home.

Sometimes she travels different paths, and he allows it, because he trusts this animal, his friend, perhaps more than he trusts himself.

The sun is rising, a golden coin in the sky, and Mark will have no time for sleep if he plans on joining his fellows, but Neo trots through the gardens, and then by the lake, and he doesn't have the heart to stop her. The view is for the sleepless night.

Skies are warm, after so long in the cold night, everything painted a beautiful pink and yellow. Even the trees, and the grass, and people.

There is only one soul awake in the entire world other than Mark, or that's how it seems. Neo is determined to show him that, even in the early morning, he is not alone — not in truth.

Donghyuck sits in the grass, legs tucked beneath him, face turned up to the sky. Painted gold.

Mark is not awake. He is dreaming, or maybe he's something in between, but there's a moment here that is precious and unreal, because this boy is beautiful. So beautiful, maybe, that that's his blessing over everything else, and Mark shouldn't be witnessing it. A private, intimate moment between Donghyuck and the earth.

Is this Donghyuck's prayer? Long after his brothers and sisters have found their beds and fallen to dreams, he sits here by the river and meets with his gods.

Mark is afraid to breathe, in case it ends everything.

Donghyuck's eyes open, pure gold, and looks at Mark dreamily. "You're here."

It's not the voice that Donghyuck spoke with that first time, and it isn't his normal voice, for all Mark has heard it. It's heavier with the morning, with sleep, with something special and human.

It doesn't seem like Donghyuck expects an answer. He turns his face back to the skies, and Neo trots onward, and the moment is passed.

Mark dreams of the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, bitches. I've forgotten how the English language works but you can't stop me.

Mark has no reason to be in the temples. He has no reason to be seeking out anyone here. There are things to be done in the castle, and in the city, but they are in a time of peace and Johnny had been in a terrible mood. There is little for Mark to do.

His feet have a horrible habit of wandering, and much like the rest of the world they don't listen to him, so he finds himself here.

The temples loom over him, and the Blessed wander around in their robes, shimmering under the sun. They look well taken care of, almost pampered. A silver-gilded cage.

There are things that Mark should and should not want; he is not certain where seeing Donghyuck lingers on that line.

He doesn't know much, these days, but he feels off-balance. He has been off-balance since seeing Donghyuck on that golden morning. _You're here_, but is he really? Mark is not convinced that Donghyuck truly saw him. Either that, or he saw too much.

Donghyuck has not been seen since.

"Master Taeil."

Taeil stands by the water, his hand swirling in the lake, forming ripples. He looks at Mark lazily, but he smiles and it's brilliant. Mark has always found Taeil to be a little larger than life, like something artists might carve out of marble and fall in love with. This entire place has that kind of feeling — more than human, ephemeral, waiting to be written in stone.

The future has always seemed to hazy. These people make it solid.

Perhaps it should be comforting, but in reality Mark's stomach rolls at the thought of it.

"Sir Mark," Taeil greets, waving Mark over. "What brings you here?"

"I..." He doesn't know. What an impossible question.

Taeil laughs, leaning back on his palms. Mud digs into the material of his robes. His feet are bare and he glows in the sunlight. "Is that panic? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Thank you." It's a bit wooden, but Mark is embarrassed. This is not the space for him to be, but Taeil doesn't seem to mind his nervous energy.

"Perhaps you should enter the temples and pray," the man offers. "The moon isn't awake, but someone is always listening."

"That sounds terrifying," Mark admits.

Taeil wheezes, surprised. "Gods truly are." He shakes his head. "Still, our doors are always open." He hums, a sweet sound. "Especially for those that need it."

Mark does not need to pray, but perhaps he does need a god.

He removes his boots on the stone steps of the main temple, where the alters lay, and it's enough of a process that he remembers why he doesn't come here more often. He would consider himself a man of faith, but speaking with entities that don't speak back is not worth the effort of removing his socks.

The marble is cold under his bare feet. It is always much colder here than outside. There's a pool of water, green-blue, in the center, and it casts odd patterns on the white walls. The ceiling is open. The walls are solid. The door is a curtain, wonderfully embroidered; it flutters behind him as he enters.

There is something somber about this place.

A boy attends the pool. His robes are tied up in a knot by his hip, extremely improper, and he's standing knee deep in water. He's young, stirring waves with a long wooden rod and staring at his distorted reflection.

When he looks up, his eyes are icy blue.

Mark voice catches in his throat.

And then the boy blinks, and his eyes are a warm brown, and he mutters curses under his breath. "I almost had it."

Mark wants to slump onto the floor. "Oh."

"It's not your fault," the boy says, but the ire in voice implies he doesn't believe that to be true. He steps out of the pool, sloshing water on the floor. "The moon's not out. I suppose it was silly to try."

The boy is very tall, taller than Mark, and his face looks quite young. His legs are pale, and he's untying the knot of his robes so the hem falls back to the floor. He looks at Mark, lip jutting out in a pout. "Kun says that I should be able to See, but I don't think he knows what he's talking about."

Mark blinks, unsure. "Well, Seeing isn't everyone's gift." He knows that much.

"The new one can See, and the water barely accepts him," the boy says frankly. "I should certainly be able to See. She loves me."

There is no question in Mark's mind that this boy is speaking of Donghyuck, and he won't admit to himself why it sours his mood. "She loves all of us," he says plainly. "Surely Kun has mentioned that, as well?"

"Don't chastise me," the boy answers, voice bold, but his face flushes pink. "He doesn't follow tradition. He doesn't want to be accepted, does he? I don't mind that he's a street rat, but don't you think he should try a little harder?"

"What's your name?" Mark asks, because he's foolish.

"Jisung." Chin tilted up, mulish. Mark has seen this kind of character before — those pages that are frightened and terrified to admit to it.

"How long have you been here, Jisung?"

"Four years."

"So you know that everyone who comes here is equal."

Jisung sighs. "I know that." He purses his mouth.

Mark softens. Oh, this kind of character, he truly does know — young and frightened, foolish, afraid of the world and what the world is capable of. Mark sees himself in this boy, trying to find ground to stand on, in a place where nothing is steady. "Do not let jealousy make you bitter."

"I'm not jealous," Jisung argues, and carefully hangs his rod back on the wall with the others. "He can't even control himself, but he's Spoken twice already. I just don't think it's fair."

Twice. "What was the second time?" Mark inquires. Perhaps Jisung is speaking of Donghyuck on that morning, but Mark was the only one privy to that, and he doubts Donghyuck would speak of it himself, considering his growing reputation for being a recluse. Was that even speaking? Mark won't pretend to know.

Jisung tilts his head then. "You're knighted, aren't you?" It's an odd change of pace, but the conversation seems to be hanging on by a thread start-to-finish. "Why are you here? Don't you have more interesting things to do?"

"Taeil suggested I pray," Mark says.

"Ah." Jisung seems to acknowledge Taeil, at the very least, so perhaps he is not hopeless. "You feel very heavy."

"Excuse me?"

"Your..." Jisung frowns, waving his hand in Mark's direction rather rudely. "You give off the feeling of being weighed down." He pauses, looks at his own feet. "You feel quite a bit like him."

Truthfully, Mark does not want to pray. Perhaps it would soothe him, but the idea of sitting still feels like a prison, and his mind does not want to settle until it gets what it wants; the longer Mark talks with this boy, the more he realizes what that is. "Do you talk to Donghyuck quite often?"

Jisung huffs. "No."

Mark won't say he isn't disappointed.

"He speaks with Jeno sometimes, but other than that he holes up in his room." Jisung rolls his eyes, and Mark wonders what this boy's upbringing is, that he judges Donghyuck for where he comes from but is so comfortable being improper. "I tried to ask him why he doesn't join us for meditating and he told me to fuck off."

The noise Mark makes is startled, but it's almost a laugh, almost joyous. "That sounds like him."

Jisung narrows his eyes. "Do you know him?"

"Not really." Mark swallows. "I brought him here."

"Oh." Jisung laughs. "He probably hates you, then."

Bitter. "I suppose he would."

"I wouldn't take it personally," Jisung says. "He hates everyone." The tone of his voice implies he certainly does take it personally.

"Is that why he's so heavy?" Mark imagines that kind of ugly feeling is awfully weighted.

"I'm not sure." Jisung digs his heels into the marble floor, eyes far away. "I'm not sure he knows why he's heavy, either."

* * *

It's a dark dream. Mark has them often, dreams that might be memories but are warped and torn apart in the middle until he's confused and exhausted. A heavy anchor, reminding him that he's human and holding him in place.

This does not feel like those dark dreams.

He walks.

There's a dark corridor, so black like ink that he cannot see where the walls melt into shadow, and yet he is at peace. This black void doesn't claw at his chest the way some dreams do. His boots click on the smooth floor, an echo.

Donghyuck is there. How odd.

Not in front of him, or behind, but beside — just out of reach, and eyes locked ahead. Mark should not be able to see him, in this space, but perhaps Donghyuck shines.

They walk, parallel, into that dark void.

* * *

Donghyuck does not eat. He does not pray. He does not leave his rooms. He writes letters like a madman and never has them delivered. He sees no visitors.

After Mark speaks with Jisung he keeps an ear to the ground, and the rumors bubble up from the earth like water from a spring. There are the same ones he has been hearing — that Donghyuck is a false prophet, that he is a bad fit for the temples — and then there are others. More frightening ones, if Mark allows himself to feel anything about them.

"He's starving himself," the maids say as they clean the rooms. "He'd rather die, I think, than be here."

"He'll hurt someone soon," say the trainees. "He's vicious, and more powerful than he admits."

It's a silly contradiction, that Donghyuck is not strong enough to remain here but is dangerous enough to destroy something so powerful.

Mark does not bother with those thoughts. Donghyuck will not hurt anyone. He would have tried to hurt Mark, over and over, instead of allowing himself to be brought here, if he were of that disposition. More than that, Mark has seen the eyes of men and women who ruin.

There is none of that fire in Donghyuck.

He does worry about Donghyuck's health.

He worries so much that it affects his other duties, because Mark's heart swings wildly between panic and emptiness these days.

"Please, stop pacing," Johnny orders, rubbing his temples. There are too many papers on his desk, and Doyoung seems to be in a particularly bad mood today, which usually affects Johnny for the worse. "You're full of energy today, Sir. You're buzzing."

"He's thinking about the new temple charge," Doyoung says, flipping through a book. He sits upright in his wooden chair, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, looking quite severe. He peers over the thin rims at the knight. "I'm exhausted just looking at you."

Mark blanches. "How did you know?"

"A solid guess." Doyoung licks at his fingers and turns the page. "That boy is the only thing that moves you, these days."

"That's true," notes the prince. "Either you're a ghost or you're worrying. I'm not sure which I prefer."

"I resent that," Mark says stiffly. "I've been working in the town recently. I'm barely even here to worry."

Doyoung looks at Johnny with a knowing eye. "And I suppose this new passion for work isn't an attempt to avoid worrying, is it?"

Mark clears his throat, awkward. "Of course not."

"There's no shame in being smitten," Johnny tells him. He smiles softly, resting his chin in his hands. "It's beautiful, really, being beguiled."

Doyoung snorts, and it's unusually derisive. Or, rather, his derision is usually laced with fondness rather than something bitter. "As long as you make the right choice, it's beautiful. Otherwise, it's a burden."

The prince crosses out something on his paperwork with an oddly spiteful stroke, angry red ink on parchment like a wound. "Love is never a burden."

The advisor sighs. "You're very naïve, Your Highness."

There is tension in the room that Mark would rather avoid, but he would like to avoid a lot of things about this conversation. "I'm not beguiled." He grips the pommel of his sword with sweating hands. "I just..."

"—worry," Doyoung finishes for him. His eyes are kind, even if he saves that softness for Mark only."He has not grown accustomed, yet," Mark admits. "I hear he is not eating, and the other disciples are not fond him."

"He brought that upon himself," Doyoung says. "He does not pray with the others, and is vocal about his dissatisfaction. I don't blame him for it," he hurries to say, when Mark takes a deep breath to argue. "I don't think life in the temples would suit me, and I'd also be unhappy that way. But by being forward about it, he limits himself."

"Not everything with limits is a cage," the prince says solemnly, full of purpose.

Doyoung's eyes flicker with irritation. "We have already discussed your naïveté today, haven't we?"

Mark fidgets. "Many of the Blessed are very happy in the temples."

"It's a cage, no matter the gild." Doyoung sighs. "The difference is that it is a cage that they chose. You can be happy under any circumstance, if you accept it."

"I never thought you were so disillusioned," Johnny mentions. His paperwork is long forgotten, and his quill blots red ink on the wood of his desk.

"I am practical," Doyoung admits. "I don't require freedom to be happy, but many people do."

"What do you require?"

"Stability," Doyoung says, without pause, and with heat.

This is not about Donghyuck, or whether Mark is properly beguiled, so Mark bows his head and slips out of the study.

He is worried, but he is not beguiled. He does not know Donghyuck well enough to be anything towards him, and he tells himself this with a firm hand. It doesn't matter that the boy is beautiful, or powerful, or unmovable. Mark respects him, for unknown reasons, because Donghyuck's back does not bow, not even to fate.

His worry is natural, Mark thinks, as he makes his way to the kitchens. His feelings are natural.

He continues telling himself this, even as he walks through the halls with a basket of food and good intentions.

The basket itself overflows. He had been too enthusiastic with the chef, a small man named Kyungsoo who only shows affection through feeding others, and was unsure of what Donghyuck preferred to eat. The solution was to provide more than necessary, and Kyungsoo had shooed Mark out of the kitchens still packing fruit into Mark's hands.

"Sir Mark," Kun says, eyebrows raised as the young man enters the temple grounds. "I was not expecting you today. Is there news from the castle?"

Mark is thankful that it is Kun and not Taeil, because despite the fact that Kun also knows Mark is here on personal business, at least he does not embarrass him. Taeil would curl his mouth knowingly and say something vague, while Kun has more control of himself.

"There's no news," Mark says, surprising no one. "I just...I was wondering if the new inductee is around."

Kun hums. He waves his hand, and the boys and girls meandering by the water raise their heads to pay attention. "Jeno?"

Mark has met Jeno before, in passing. He was inducted at a young age, but Mark has been here even longer, and attended the ceremony. He is much older now, and handsome, with clear eyes. He is well built, and would do well as a soldier, if the disciples weren't pacifists — or indispensable. "Yes?"

"Please take our friend to Donghyuck." Kun smiles calmly. "It seems he brings gifts."

The basket in his hands suddenly seems very heavy. Mark stops himself from hiding the evidence of his worry behind his back, because he might be a coward but he does not shy away from his own decisions.

Jeno's smile is slow and knowing, and Mark is wondering if the Blessed are trained to smile that way. Is it the culture here, to see straight through others? He huffs. It's inconvenient.

The other boy holds out an arm, like an invitation, and says, "This way."

Jisung is not around today, and Mark looks at the main temple, wondering if he is stirring the water for his gods again.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Jeno says, misreading Mark's interest. "It's most lovely at night, but it's still pretty during the day."

Mark hums affirmatively. "I don't visit much at night." Truthfully, he doesn't visit much at all.

Jeno has a gentle spirit, bright, and he's quiet as he leads Mark through the grounds. "Donghyuck stays in the back, with the younger children."

"I'm sure he's a bit rough with them," Mark notes.

"Not at all," Jeno says, eyebrows raised. He seems surprised. "Quite the opposite, the children are the most fond of him. I think he'd spend more time in the community if they were not in lessons during the day."

"He is good with them?"

"He has a lot of experience with children," Jeno says passively. "They remind him of home."

Mark wonders what Donghyuck's home is like. Mark barely remembers his own home, as it's been many years. But he remembers the boy that had desperately chased through the crowd after Donghyuck, to prevent the inevitable, and thinks that Donghyuck surely has a family that cares about him.

The temple does not have doors, not even in its housing, and so Mark sees Donghyuck even from far away. He lounges on his floor, quite languid, and Jeno laughs, putting a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Relax," he says, and Mark realizes that he'd tensed like he was marching into battle.

"I'm relaxed," he mutters.

"Alright," Jeno replies, easy, and they both know it's a lie. "I will be around whenever you are finished with your gift giving."

Mark bows his head. "Thank you."

When he looks forward again, Donghyuck has heard the commotion outside, and has sat up to see who is coming. He is shocked when he sees Mark, but he hides it immediately, and his face is blank when Mark finally enters the room. "Good evening."

"Good evening," Mark says, bowing quite low in his panic. The basket is still heavy in his hands, and Donghyuck looks at it, almost accusingly. "I...ah." He scratches his neck.

"To what do I owe the honor?" Donghyuck asks coolly, his eyes still on the basket.

He looks much different now than he has any of the other times Mark has seen him. During the procession he was dirty and desperate, and during the ceremony he was untouchable stone. On that fine morning he had looked more like a god than a man, but here in the temples he looks quite attainable, like a boy.

His hair is short, a soft brown that curls around his face, and his head is tilted to the side, like he is waiting for Mark's move.

"I heard that you weren't eating," Mark says eventually, when his breath is caught.

Donghyuck blinks, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Is that so?"

This boy does not want things to be easy. Well, Mark can't begrudge him that. "I hear all sorts of things, but mostly I worry about your health." Donghyuck has not been seen at meals for a week at least.

"I'm sure the rumors are very interesting," Donghyuck says, pulling at the collar of his tunic. It is, shockingly, one of the garments that Mark had procured from the tailor. A robe is tossed uselessly over the back of a chair, but the tunic and breeches Donghyuck wears were Mark's doing. "I'm happy to provide entertainment for royalty. As a peasant, it's the highest honor I could hope for."

"I don't care much for rumors," Mark admits. He holds out the basket, firm. Do not regret your decisions, Mark tells himself, not once you cannot turn back.

Donghyuck takes the basket, and the twist of his mouth is quite amused. "I have been eating, despite what they say."

"You have not attended meals."

"Jeno brings me food in the evenings," Donghyuck says, petting the wicker with absent fingers. He looks up at Mark through his lashes, almost soft.

"Oh." Mark had not considered that. Foolish. He curses Jeno, who saw Mark's intentions and did not stop him from tripping over his own feet. "I...well." He licks his lips. "I suppose you're well, then."

"I'm well." Donghyuck smiles, crooked. He has not moved from his seat on the floor, and he cranes his neck to look at the knight. He is not intimidated, nor irritated, only amused. But underneath that, he seems open. "I don't like being around the others. They turn their noses up at me, and the view is quite ugly."

Mark frowns. "I see." He wipes his hands on his trousers. "I can take the food back." It is an awful amount of food, for someone who isn't hungry.

"I don't mind," Donghyuck says quickly, averting his eyes. He removes the fabric covering the meal, and the way he startles at the abundance makes Mark want to sink into the earth. But Donghyuck smiles, beams, like the sun. "I'm thankful that someone so mighty cares about my health."

There's a loaf of bread, and Donghyuck picks it up and rips it to pieces, holding half out to Mark.

Mark can't stop himself from smiling. "Is this a peace offering?"

Donghyuck looks at him so closely. "Are we are war?"

Mark doesn't say anything.

A pause, but Donghyuck's expression does not change. "Then yes, I suppose it is."

It is silly, but Mark soars. "You should resent me more," he chides, but it borders on teasing, and he takes the bread. "I brought you here."

"You didn't have a choice," Donghyuck reminds him, and he pats the space at his side. "There is not much else you could have done, when I was made a fool in public."

Secretly, Mark thinks that Donghyuck asserted himself as a terrifying power that day, and was not foolish at all, but that is not what Donghyuck wants to hear. Does Donghyuck know that his strength is envied? That's the true root of the rumors — others are terrified of this boy and what he could do.

"Besides." Donghyuck takes a wicked bites of the bread, his teeth ripping through the thick crust. It's barbaric, and Donghyuck wipes his mouth with dainty fingers. When he grins, Mark realizes he's staring. "You're quite cute. There are worse things."

Mark shovels a quarter of the bread into his mouth to avoid answering.

"Although I will say the tall one wouldn't have been a bad choice, either," Donghyuck muses. "What do they call him? Yukhei?" He whistles, and laughs at the way Mark scowls. "Knights surely are handsome."

"Don't tease me," Mark whines.

"Let me have fun, won't you?" He yawns. "You're easy. It's boring here, and the others are so serious. Even Jeno forgets to laugh every once in a while."

"There are others beyond the temples that you could tease properly, if you left your rooms." It is strange, that Mark has gone from avoiding this man to offering advice, but he'll admit that Donghyuck is worth knowing. A large part of his heart wishes for the rumors to end, or at least become a little sweeter. "You're charming enough, I'm sure they wouldn't even punish you."

"I herald the end of a country," Donghyuck reminds him. "They'll punish me for breathing."

"Don't think so seriously," Mark says, after a moment. Donghyuck has a strange way of being serious, hiding it behind a smile, but there's worry there. "You're not the first prophet."

"Nor the last." Donghyuck sighs. "Still, I'd like to be powerless and elsewhere." His jaw is set. "Let them call me fake. I don't care." His chin held high. "They want what I have. They can take it. I'll vanish if that's what they want."

Mark thinks that is the last thing he wants. "Don't vanish."

In many ways, it makes sense that Mark feels so much. He is not beguiled, but Donghyuck has his own gravity, and Mark has been listless for some time. Being pulled in by him, it's not surprising.

Donghyuck draws his knees up to his chest. "Thank you," he says softly, his hands buried in the basket of fruit and cheese.

"I'm sorry," Mark says, almost thoughtless.

"That's not how people normally respond, but alright." Donghyuck laughs. "There is nothing to apologize for."

There is so much to apologize for, but in the end Mark is not truly at fault. He wonders what Donghyuck needs to be happy. Doyoung needs stability, but Donghyuck balances on the edge of chaos, and pulls at the chains of structure like a bull. There are dark circles under his eyes.

He is eating, he says he takes care of himself, but Mark can't stop himself from worrying.

Something shifts.

Something comes in through the window, a soft melody, and there's a hand on Mark's neck. The touch is gentle, and it burns like fire. The hand cups his jaw and turns his face. Donghyuck is much closer, a breath away, and Mark is so focused on his mouth that he barely realizes Donghyuck's eyes are golden coins. "We are connected by fate, you know." That deeper voice.

It's shocking, but somehow Mark's heart is steady.

He holds onto Donghyuck's wrist. "Your god takes your mouth too much."

Donghyuck laughs, like a bell. "She is talkative. She picked a good mouth." The fingers trail until they linger just under Mark's chin. He looks over Mark's face, assessing. "I'm not the only one who is blessed."

"I'm blessed with anxiety," Mark says, a hollow joke, and Donghyuck's eyes are still not clear. "Tell your god that I'd rather be left alone."

Donghyuck laughs again, bitterly, and finally the light in his face dulls to something human. His fingers shake as he removes them from Mark's skin. "You and me, both."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're still setting things in place a little, but markhyuck finally interacted for real and Mark is already whipped, so it's probably on the up and up from here. But also, what do I know.
> 
> Please comment things or hmu up on [twt](https://twitter.com/fuIImarks) or whatever the young people do these days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bitch is back and it's time for some...whatever this is. They're cute. @ me

Yerim greets him outside the barracks in the morning, hair tightly plaited and a smile curling on her mouth. "I hear things, soldier," she teases, and Mark looks at her warily.

"People talk too much," he mutters, strapping the buckles of his armor. He's not a morning person, and Yerim is much chirpier. Yuhkei is likely still asleep, having spent the night before working in town and likely charming the townspeople out of a bottle of wine. "What did you hear?"

"That a certain siren has caught your attention." She straightens the plate on Mark's chest and slaps his shoulder too hard. "How do you feel? Bewitched?"

Mark groans. "It's too early for people to say these things."

"People say whatever they want," Yerim says with a snort. "Remember the rumors about Yukhei and that prince from the East?"

"Absolutely, and I remember them being true." Mark stretches. The sun is only just rising, and the squires are lining up in the training yard. "Although I suppose gossip is all trivial, whether it's true or not."

She hums, squinting at the sun. "This prophet must be pretty," Yerim notes, "for everyone to be so interested in him." She looks at Mark pointedly. "Do you deny it?"

How could he? "He's very pretty," Mark admits. "But I'm not under a spell. I'm not sure blessings work that way."

"They could." Yerim twists her braid over her shoulder. "Gods only know how those things work. I have a friend in the Isles who swears she's been blessed with good fortune because she never loses at dice."

"Does the moon care about dice?" Mark asks, grinning. The sun is already beating down hot on the metal plating, but there's a satisfying weight to it, and he's slowly waking up with the sky and the birds and air.

"Who knows what she cares about." Yerim tilts her head at him. "Maybe she cares about you, maybe she doesn't. It's thrilling, isn't it?"

Mark looks at her carefully. "I think you'd like Donghyuck a lot."

"Don't introduce us," she titters, breezing past Mark to go talk to the trainees. "Wouldn't want to be bewitched like a certain someone, hmm?" She laughs, but there's truth in it.

Beguiled, bewitched, Mark is starting to think he's a little bit of everything.

* * *

The prince is with his advisor when Mark returns from his morning duties, freshly bathed and ready to serve, but there's a pinched expression on their faces, and a tension in the air that Mark is growing too familiar with. "Your Highness?" he says quietly, closing the door softly behind him.

"Ah, Mark." Johnny is standing up by the bookshelf, and Doyoung is standing slightly too close, hissing in his ear until he realizes someone has entered the study. HIs cheeks are flushed red. "My apologies. I didn't hear you enter."

"You should have waited for permission," Doyoung says primly.

"I..." Mark bows his head. "Next time, I will."

Johnny sighs. "No need for that." Mark can't remember the last time he had to wait to be allowed entry — usually a knock is enough to announce his presence, and Johnny has too much going on at any given moment to give allowances as often as Mark comes and goes.

The bedroom is a different matter, but Mark has never been scolded for entering the study.

"Doyoung," Johnny puts a hand on his advisor's shoulder, "there's no need for that, is there? Mark is alright to enter. I trust Mark."

Johnny trusts Mark because Mark doesn't ask questions. Mark keeps his mouth closed and reads the titles of the books, standing at attention, until the tension melts away.

Doyoung holds his arms behind his back and slumps against the bookshelf. His head doesn't hang because he's proud and stubborn, but he looks at Johnny as submissive as Mark has ever seen him. "I'll discuss it with your parents." He purses his lips. "But, Your Highness, you can't push it aside forever."

Mark moves gently out of the way as Doyoung walks out of the room, smoothing the collar of his shirt down. "Please look at the paperwork," Doyoung says over his shoulder, one hand on the door, "at least."

Johnny looks at him flatly. "I will not."

"One day, you'll regret this," Doyoung tells him, and that's the end of the conversation. The door shuts behind him.

Mark takes a deep breath. "Your Highness—"

"I'd rather not," Johnny says, and that's another ending.

"Would you like some privacy?" Mark offers, after a moment. "Or perhaps I should call a maid to bring you something to eat. Have you eaten?"

"I've eaten." Johnny walks over to his desk and takes a seat, running a hand through his hair. It's growing quite long, and he unties it with nimble fingers. He looks younger with it down, messier, less like a man who will be king. "Mark...can I ask you something?"

Mark relaxes. This is the man that Mark has sacrificed so much for. Despite their disparities, Mark might even call them friends, when the situation allows. "Of course."

Johnny looks at him. His eyes are so pointed. It's truly a wonder anyone can defy him, when he looks like an image of god. "When you think of the future...how do you feel?"

"Oh." Mark bites his lip. "I'm..." In truth, it makes him sick, his stomach churning. "I feel unsure." There are too many possibilities. But in the end, Mark isn't certain his choices will matter, when fate seems to want something of him.

_This land rises or falls by your choice._

It must matter.

Is this how Johnny feels? If his choices matter, and Johnny's are already set, what is the road that lies ahead of them? Will they be happy?

Does Johnny feel hopeless because of the lack of choice in the same way Mark is drowning in the possibilities?

But, truthfully, Mark doesn't want to think about the future. He's comfortable here. He has a place here, at this time, with these people, and he's fond of it. It suits him, most days.

He is not certain where Donghyuck fits into that picture, but — then again — he's not certain of anything.

And this shouldn't be about Donghyuck, anyway, despite how everything feels like it's about Donghyuck.

"I see." Johnny sits back in his chair, hand over his mouth. "I suppose we're the same, that way."

"We're the same in many ways," Mark says, before pausing. "Not to be presumptuous."

Johnny laughs. "I don't mind your presumptions." He pushes the papers around on his desk, out of his sight, and his eyes are less pointed now, seeing something very far away. "They're harmless. Gossip is nothing to me."

"I wouldn't say that." Gossip has its own power. "I want you to be careful, and to be happy."

"To be happy..." Johnny laughs. "I suppose that's what I want from the future, as well."

* * *

Mark does end up allowing Johnny to think privately. He slips out the door quietly after an hour of companionable silence. Mark is meant to protect Johnny, and he spends a lot of time with the prince, and he knows when solitude is the sweetest medicine.

So he leaves, with a small word to let him know if Johnny decides to leave the castle today, and makes his way to the stables.

Neo is waiting for him, aching to run, and Mark connects with that. It's a lovely day, and something from the earth bubbles up and fills him with the desire to be free, to run wild and make waves. He brushes her mane and tells her about his day, and about His Highness, and about wishes he shouldn't make.

"Do horses think of the future?" Mark asks. "Do you have fears?"

She whinnies at him in response, and Mark takes it as the affirmative.

"Me, too," he says, grinning. He rests his forehead on her flank. This is simple. Mark thinks he appreciates simple.

He is not alone in the stables. There's no such thing as real privacy here. It is not so purposeful as the lack of doors in the temples, or the King and Queen attaching Mark to their son, but it is in the nature of things that are hectic. The castle is so populated, and something is always happening, and so people are always coming and going. At least four men and women have entered the stables after Mark arrived, as well as the stable hand who works quietly nearby.

Mark would like some privacy.

He saddles Neo quickly and leads her gently out of the stables into the sunlight.

He is not alone in the stables, and he is not alone in the fields, but the wide space makes things feel separate and solitary.

It's an illusion.

Mark is not alone, and he is aware he is not alone, but others are less careful.

Not far in the distance, Donghyuck hands someone a letter with gravity, and that someone slips the letter in his pocket, adjusts the bag on his shoulder, and starts walking to town.

Mark watches it, heart in his throat.

Donghyuck slips back into the castle grounds, like he never broke a rule in the first place. The disciples aren't supposed to be out of the temples at this time of day, but it's a meal time and the security is lax; most of them are not forced to be there, and so have no reason to get into mischief.

Sending letters into town is a larger rule to break.

The Blessed are supposed to remove themselves from outside influences — it's one reason why the rules are so stringent, and the temples so secluded. Of course, that is a limit often broken, as there is often interaction with the people in the castle. Mark himself has never has any issues entering the temples, and he is only as important as his sword says he is.

Donghyuck is important, inherently.

And so, when the messenger passes by on the main road and Mark knows he can beat him to the city, he does so.

There is a possibility that the boy with the letter with be intercepted before he reaches the main town, but there is nothing between there and the castle, and Mark eases Neo down a familiar path and wonders what he will find at the bottom.

If there is a truth there, then Mark would like to find it.

It is a short ride to the town and a longer walk, and by the time Mark has tied Neo up he still has to wait a short while before the boy reappears on the path. Whether he had time to lose the letter is a mystery, but he is not walking particularly quickly, and Mark isn't certain he could have managed it so quickly.

The boy enters the market with a list in his hands, and when Mark gets a better look at his face he thinks he's seen him around the kitchen. Is he help? He knows Kyungsoo often prefers doing his own shopping, but there seems to be some sort of event to prepare for, and perhaps he no longer has the time. Perhaps sending this boy with a list and a sack is the best option.

Mark does not look so different. He wears breeches and tunic and his old boots, scuffed, and fits in with the villagers, but he still feels out of place. He has not come here alone in so long, usually trailed by Yerim or Yukhei and the hopes for a good night. He smiles awkwardly at the vendors.

The last time he was in town, Donghyuck made a spectacle of them both. The vendors surely remember.

It's a much different atmosphere here, and Mark isn't sure he likes it. The stares are either heavier or over his head, ignoring his existence completely, and there is no middle ground. The further he walks the more there is to distract, or the less people remember, and part of this is certainly Mark's own paranoia; no one really cares, but they love a good show.

Mark is determined to be as boring as possible.

Still, he is here with a purpose.

The other boy weaves through the people with practiced ease. His voice is loud, and he chirps at the vendors and trades pennies for parsnip and compliments for candies. He's dressed well, perhaps too well for a kitchen hand, but he maneuvers the crowd well, and fits in so well that no one pays attention to the embroidery on his boots.

His sack half-full, he veers off the main path and into the more residential parts of town. Flowers are hanging off of ledges to dry. Men and women fold linens neatly and an old woman is beating a rug with an old shoe. They smile at the boy as he passes.

There's a hiss to Mark's left, and he steps to the side in time to dodge something sharp and dangerous. Metal glints in the sunlight. The old woman continues beating her rug.

Another boy is lunging out of an alcove, dagger tearing a hole in Mark's tunic but missing fragile skin. His eyes are wild, and Mark has seen him before.

The recognition is mutual, and the boy — the same boy from the procession, the one chasing Donghyuck so desperately — snarls. He flips the dagger in his grip and lunges again.

Mark won't say that the boy's technique is shabby; it surely isn't. In fact, Mark doesn't know many people who can fight in such close quarters so well, which is unfortunate, because Mark is unarmed and out of practice.

But more than the technique, it's the speed that is worrisome. Lack of preparation means that Mark's movement is predictable, and this boy has experience with a knife and something burning inside, and his blade comes close to breaking skin too many times.

"I'm not here to fight," Mark huffs, sweeping at the boy's legs, and he succeeds in breaking the rhythm, but the dagger still flies, and Mark's boots take the brunt of what would have been a messy hit.

"I don't care," is the terse reply, and Mark makes a decision.

The boy's technique is good, and he's fast, and experienced, but he hasn't trained everyday the way Mark has. He hasn't fought for money the way Mark has. He hasn't risked his life, not the way Mark has.

He's outclassed, if Mark stops playing games.

And he has a bad wrist.

Mark focuses his blocks there. He doesn't want to do lasting damage. This fight feels childish, if he admits it to himself, and there's killing intent but only on one side. Something tells him that this boy has just as many answers at the other one, if not more.

The dagger clatters on cobblestones. Mark presses the sole of his shoe on the gleaming metal.

It's the only sound, other than heavy breathing, and Mark turns to look at the towns folk. The old woman looks at him flatly, but returns to her rug. The woman folding linens sings a soft song.

The boy in front of Mark spits on the ground.

"If you hurt Chenle, I'll kill you," he says, and Mark assumes that's the name of the messenger.

"Chenle is long gone, I think," Mark replies idly. "I was more interested in the letter. I'm assuming it's meant for you?"

The boy is out of breath. He's small, and his hair is long and brown and tied back messily with a ribbon. His shoulders are narrow, but he burns the same way Donghyuck does, or did, when he thought Mark was an enemy. Donghyuck doesn't burn this way with Mark anymore.

"Why do you want to know?"

Mark swallows something down. "I..." He fingers the hole in his tunic. Sicheng will murder him for ruining it. "You know that it's not allowed, don't you?"

"A lot of things aren't allowed," the boy answers, chin raised. "Attacking a knight, for example, or kidnapping my friend."

"Do you mean Donghyuck?" Mark picks up the dagger gently and tucks it into his belt. "I didn't kidnap him. I would rather he wasn't at the temples, either. It's difficult for him."

The boy scoffs. "Don't pretend it matters to you." He's rather rude, and his voice is bitter. "You do whatever they tell you, don't you? And don't think for yourself? I'm not impressed."

Mark laughs. That's rather spot-on, but Johnny is a good man, and Mark is alright letting the prince think for him most days. Still — "If I did whatever they wanted, I would have told them about the letter, instead of coming here and dealing with you." He grins. He knows it makes him look young. It's jarring, when someone wants to hate him.

It works well enough. In front of him, the boy looks him up and down, blinking, but the scowl is still deep in the lines of his face. He's cute, impish, if he smiled. "The letter is none of your business."

"Donghyuck is actually risking his life to send it to you, do you know that?" Mark says gently.

Honestly, he doubts Donghyuck sees it that way. Donghyuck is not used to how fickle courts are with lives. And Mark supposes the disciples have a certain amount of security. But if they are looking for a reason to destroy Donghyuck — and some of them are — it's best to give them as little impetus as possible.

"He's been doing it for weeks," the boy replies. "Since he arrived, and the first person to catch on is some silly man-child who can't keep an eye on what matters." He digs into his pocket and pulls the letter out smugly. "Will you kill him for it?"

Mark stares at the paper, at the bitter blue of the wax seal, and eventually he laughs. He's been beat. There are worse things. "Donghyuck gave that letter to Chenle in the middle of everything and assumed no one would care to pay attention," Mark says, once he's laughed his fill. "That's a big assumption."

"No one really cares about him in that place." The boy tucks the letter away again. "Except you, perhaps, but you're the first."

"I just don't think that's true." He thinks of Jeno and Taeil and Kun and even Jisung, in a strange way. "But make sure you write in your response that he needs to be more careful, hmm? He's got awful luck." Mark scuffs the cobblestones and frowns at the rip in his boots. "Fuck," he says softly. "I liked these."

The boy squints at him, at the air around him, at the holes in his clothes, at the dagger in his belt. "Tell him yourself," he says eventually. "I'll get you new boots."

Mark laughs. "Really?" Boots are expensive, especially leather ones that knights wear. It's not something he would ever hold someone else accountable for. "I don't believe you."

"I will." Stubborn. "I will, but you have to come back yourself to get them." Pause, pointed. "And you have to bring him with you."

* * *

"Renjun," is the last thing the boy says to him. "If Hyuck asks, you talked with Renjun," and then he's gone.

Neo is right where Mark left her, and it's a much longer ride to the castle than it was to town.

The sun is almost gone, and the moon is half-full and murky in the sky by the time Mark has returned. The stables are mostly empty, and Mark dismounts and leads his stead to the water trough with a heavy mind.

Someone waits for him. In the darkly lit area, someone sits, breathes, waits. Mark can hear the movement.

Mark is hopeful, and his hopes are fell-founded.

"You're stupid," Donghyuck mutters from where he sits in the hay beside Neo's pen once Mark lights the lamps. His head is tilted back, but the planes of his face are rather cold. He should be praying with the others now, but he's here, waiting, and there's straw in his hair. "And you should mind your own business."

"It was just a casual stroll," Mark replies, but he's grinning as he unsaddles her and runs his hands over her neck. "Just to town and back. Nothing interesting."

"A sudden trip," Donghyuck bites, unimpressed. "Any reason for it?"

"Absolutely not." Mark leans his elbows on the stall doors and peers down at Donghyuck. "But I would like you to know that you should be careful, and that Chenle is not very sneaky but is very good at hand-offs."

Donghyuck scowls. "I don't know what you're talking about." He throws a fistful of hay in Mark's face. "If you get us in trouble, I'll destroy you."

Mark smiles, the same smile that had disarmed Renjun. Donghyuck does not melt, but then, neither did his friend, and Mark is not charming enough to do more that stutter the rhythm. "You get into trouble on your own."

He doesn't ask why Donghyuck is waiting here for him. He doesn't ask how Donghyuck knew where he went, or cared enough to ask around, but Mark doubts the moon cares enough about his whereabouts to whisper in Donghyuck's ear.

"Do you miss him?" he asks instead. He's curious.

Donghyuck frowns. "Who?"

"Renjun."

"You met Renjun?" Donghyuck laughs, more of a snort, and it should be ugly. "How did that go?"

"Poorly." Probably about as well as Donghyuck is imagining, based on the smug look on his face. There are so many similarities between Renjun and this boy. Mark wonders how long they've been together, and through what. He sticks a finger through the hole in his shirt. "He owes me new boots."

"He also owes me two shirts and an apple, so I wouldn't hold your breath." But Donghyuck is shaking his head fondly, and that's answer enough — he misses him quite a lot. He takes a deep breath, considering. There's tension there, despite his lounging, and it doesn't fade but it changes into something softer. He looks at Mark. "What did you think of him?"

Perhaps a better question would be _what did he think of you?_

Mark hums. "He was fierce." Looks at Donghyuck carefully, and then reaches up and plucks straw out of his own hair. "He reminds me of you."

"Don't tell him that," Donghyuck says, smothering a smile. "He'll kill you."

"He tried."

Truthfully, many people have tried to kill Mark before. Renjun didn't do such a bad job of it, despite the odd fuel for the fire. He would never have won, but Mark thinks that had he succeeded he would have suffered just as much in the aftermath. Mark can recognize someone who has never taken a life, but Renjun is willing, if it means survival.

"But he said he'd get me new boots, so," Mark continues, thoughtful. "I think it could have gone much worse."

Donghyuck bites the inside of his cheek. "Did you…" He rolls his eyes, probably at himself, and throws hesitancy out the window with a huff. "Did you get the letter?"

"No," Mark admits. "I was more interested in the destination, anyway. I trust you're not selling secrets."

Donghyuck squints at him in the dim lighting, but Mark's always been a bad liar. There's no reason for Donghyuck to not believe him. "You shouldn't trust me at all."

"What have you done to me that I shouldn't trust you?" Mark hangs over the edge of the stable door. The single lamp is too dim to see clearly, but he knows the kind of face Donghyuck is making, something bitter and disbelieving. "All you've done is sleep and Speak and fool other people into thinking you're dangerous. To me, all you've done is curse me a little and share your bread."

It's true enough. Certainly, Donghyuck has a sharp tongue, but a part of Mark enjoys feeling the brunt of it, because it reminds him he's alive. And those barbs are meant to dig, never drown. Mark has dealt with so many different types of people, some harmless and some poised for murder, and he isn't always a wonderful judge of character, but he knows when people are frightened. He sees that in others because he sees it in himself.

Donghyuck purses his mouth and picks at the hay. "There are others." Quiet.

"Other than Renjun?" Mark asks. "Are they all like that?"

Donghyuck doesn't ask him to specify. "No," he says, laughing. "Some of them are worse, in other ways, but Renjun is the only one willing to piss on your boots when you first meet." He hesitates. "Probably."

"Tell me about them." Mark should not be encouraging him, should not be making Donghyuck miss the outside world any more than he already does, because in many ways Donghyuck's fate is sealed. "How many are there?"

Donghyuck is silent for a moment, measured. "I'm not sure," he admits. "It changes. There's Renjun, and me, and Jaemin...Yangyang, but he comes and goes."

"Chenle?" Mark presses.

"Chenle is a bother, not a brother," Donghyuck chirps, but he's soft, so Mark isn't sure that's true. "He stops by sometimes, even before I was..."

Mark rests his chin on his forearms. "I'm sorry."

Donghyuck makes a face and throws more hay at him. It lands in Mark's hair. "Stop apologizing."

It seems so strange, that this creature is the one that has the castle discussing conspiracies. He's loose now, relaxed and sleepy, and the lamp light makes him look warm but the breeze through the doorway is chilly. His neck is long, head back, and it makes him look vulnerable. Is this the boy they see when they whisper?

Was Renjun right; is Mark the only one who pays attention?

"If I wanted you to pay for your transgressions, you would," Donghyuck says forcefully, and Mark doesn't doubt him. "I'd destroy more than just your boots."

Mark smiles. "You'd ruin me, right?"

Donghyuck swallows. "Right."

Mark hums, thinking. "And what are my transgressions?"

"They're innumerable," Donghyuck says, whip-fast. "I couldn't even begin to list them. Every day, you irritate me."

"I thought we ended this war!"

"It's a new war." Donghyuck huffs, tugging thoughtlessly at the hem of his robes. "You're a knight, right? Wars pop up all the time, right?"

"No," Mark rebuffs. "I've never actually..." He swallows. "Well, you're right, I suppose war is inevitable." Humans are never happy, and things are always changing. "But that doesn't mean _we're_ at war."

"Of course it does." Donghyuck has a straight face, but there's something easy about the way he speaks. Mark wants to take his boots off and sit next to Donghyuck in the hay and sleep forever, maybe, because this is easy. He wonders if Donghyuck would let him. "We're only human, Mark. And we're connected."

"That's true enough." Mark bites his lip. "Are you...you're not happy here," he says finally, and it's not a question. Despite the neutral expression that's stayed on Donghyuck's face, it still grows a little darker. "Do you think you could ever be?"

"That's not up to me," Donghyuck replies, sober, "is it?"

Mark scratches his head. "I guess not." He wants Donghyuck to be happy. There's a long pause. "Ah, but I brought something for you."

Donghyuck perks up, straightening his back as Mark returns to his saddlebags. "A present? Am I fair maiden to deserve this from a shining knight?" he drawls.

Mark scowls at him, but Donghyuck is clearly delighted. "It's not from me."

Donghyuck softens, tilts his head. "Oh?" Is that disappointment?

"No." Mark grins. "From Renjun," he says, and tosses something Donghyuck's way.

It's an apple, fresh and perfect.

Donghyuck laughs, beautiful.

Mark just wants Donghyuck to be happy.

"Just two shirts now," Donghyuck says, cheeky, and then he looks at Mark like a wall giving way. "And a pair of boots."

"And a pair of boots," Mark agrees, chest full.

Donghyuck lifts the apple to his lips, eyes shining —

They glaze over, gold. His entire body is tense as a wire, and he stares out the door, eyes golden coins. Sudden, disjointed. He stands up, apple in hand, knuckles white. His mouth is open, just a hair, brow knit.

"Hyuck..." Mark isn't sure what's going on. There's sound outside. Mark stares as well, but whatever Donghyuck sees is beyond him.

"Come." It's Donghyuck's own voice, and he flutters his hand in Mark's direction until Mark catches on at takes it. Donghyuck's palm is warm, calloused. "Come." He barely gives Mark time to shut the stable door before pulling him outside.

Mark allows himself to be dragged behind, because clearly Donghyuck knows something he doesn't, but the path he takes is not towards the castle, or towards the town, but around toward the gardens. Their shoes beat on dewy grass and soft soil. Mark is not as nimble as he should be in his confusion, and Donghyuck does not slow down for him.

The sun is fully set.

They round the corner, and it is the first time Mark has seen so many Blessed off the temple grounds.

They are trickling in, shades of blue and silver, and they're clumped together, not planned, eyes shining in the low light. Mark sees Jeno, head on Kun's shoulder, eyes sleepy and silver. It's so quiet, other than the ragged sound of Donghyuck's breathing and racing of Mark's heart. He's so tired.

In the distance, there's the sound Mark heard earlier — a carriage, several, and not from the town path. From the North.

"Guards," Mark calls, voice raised, but Donghyuck's grip is a vice, and his sleeve is suddenly over Mark's mouth, apple still clutched in his hand.

"Do not," he warns. "They're..." He shakes his head. "Come. Hurry." He pulls Mark into the moonlight.

The carriages are not familiar, but they are not foreign either. Mark has seen them before, glimpses. The horses are a delicate white, well-groomed, and the carriages are relatively plain but clearly well made. They pull up in the gardens, and the castle is waking up to greet their surprise guests.

"Who are they?" Mark asks, a breath.

"Can't you feel it?" Donghyuck asks.

Mark can't feel it, can't feel anything over the thrumming in his blood, but he knows what it means.

The doors open. An angel steps out.

There are multiple carriages, and they all hold multiple people, trickling out in robes of white. Mark sticks out like a sore-thumb, brown and beige amidst blue and white, but he feels invisible, because the figure at the forefront is beautiful and requires everyone's attention. Even Jeno is suddenly awake.

The doors to the terrace behind them open up, and Johnny and his mother walk out onto the landing. "Jungwoo," Johnny calls, grinning but confused. His mother clutches his arm, unsure. Her hair is down.

The man at the front — Jungwoo, the angel — smiles. "I thought it was a good season for a visit," he calls. His voice is so soft. He waves back, and it lacks decorum, and that's rather grounded. He's real because he waves and it's silly. His robe flutters behind him and makes him look like a god.

Around him, the air thrums, and Mark doesn't think he's ever met someone so light with so much weight.

He walks up the path, and Donghyuck holds Mark's hand tighter when Jungwoo gets closer, until the stranger is close enough that his robes brush their shadows.

In a daze, Donghyuck holds out his apple.

Jungwoo pauses, and Mark wants to shrink under his gaze, even as fast as it brushes over him, but the man stares at the offering with kind eyes. He smiles.

"It's a gift for you," Jungwoo says, reaching out with gentle hands and curling Donghyuck's fingers back around the apple. "I won't take it." For a moment, he holds Donghyuck's cheek in his hand.

Donghyuck holds the gift to his chest, breathless, and Jungwoo continues walking to the terrace without incident.

"Donghyuck," Mark whispers.

Donghyuck looks at him, blinks away the shine in his eyes, and burns red. "Sorry."

Mark squeezes his hand, one more time. Hesitates, and smiles. "Stop apologizing."

Softly, thoughtfully, Donghyuck brings the apple to his lips and rests it there. He looks at Mark, and his eyes shine in a way that's purely human. "Why are they here?" he asks in a whisper, like Mark would ever know more than Donghyuck could. Like this strange game of fate is one Mark knows how to play, when even the rules are beyond his understanding.

"Who are they?" Mark asks, as the other Blessed wander back to the temples, and Johnny greets Jungwoo and the others on the terrace with open arms. They're important, and it's grand.

"They're from a temple, I'd assume." Donghyuck watches them carefully, the procession of white. "But..."

"Donghyuck," someone calls, and it's Kun, trailing Jeno behind. "Where have you been?"

"With Mark," Donghyuck replies, without hesitation, and Mark holds up his hand as a white flag when Kun looks at him critically. Donghyuck pulls Mark in front of him, his own barrier, and it's rather shameless. "We weren't doing anything."

Jeno snickers.

Kun looks at them both closely, before deciding that whatever this is isn't worth the battle. "We should head back," he says calmly. "It's evening meal soon."

"Are you eating with them these days?" Mark asks Donghyuck, surprised.

Kun smiles and it's tense. "No, he isn't. But I've caught him today. Come on." He grabs the boy, who is already whining, and it's only when their hands come apart that Mark realizes he is still holding on. "Just for tonight. Come."

"I don't want to." With a movement and a step, Donghyuck slips his robe off and Kun is left holding blue linen and breath. Donghyuck pushes Mark in front again, more forcefully, but Kun is determined. "I don't like eating with them." He wears only breeches and an undershirt. Some of the Blessed on the terrace look at the display in distaste.

"You'll eat with me and Jeno, and Jisung — if he stops pouting long enough to eat his bread." Kun huffs, finally holding onto Donghyuck's wrist. "You can't tell me you dislike him. I know how you work, these days."

"This is unfair," Donghyuck whines, but there's no escaping. He reaches out, grabbing, and he pulls Mark in by the shirt sleeve. Mark follows, worn-thin.

He isn't sure what he's expecting, but Donghyuck kisses his cheek and Mark's world turns sideways.

"Thanks for the apple," Donghyuck whispers, tongue-in-cheek, and Kun leads him away, turning him away by the shoulders even as Donghyuck cranes his neck around. "I'll see you!"

"Leave the poor boy alone," Kun is saying, and Donghyuck's response is swallowed by the night air.

When Mark chances a look up at the terrace, Johnny is laughing at him.

"Stupid." Mark mutters, fingers on his cheek, and he isn't sure what he's referring to. Himself, maybe.

The night is chilly, but he's warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donghyuck says I don't trust you but also you're cute as fuck sooooo
> 
> I would die for Donghyuck let me know if you, also, would die for him, thank you  
also follow me on [twt](https://twitter.com/fuIImarks) I guess

**Author's Note:**

> [hmu](https://twitter.com/fuIImarks)


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